Defining Moments
by vandana
Summary: BBC's Sherlock; Defining moments in the relationship of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, and how it will affect their relationship in the future.
1. Prologue: Sherlock

You had known from the very start that the woman on the table had not been Irene Adler. You knew every contour, ever line, every strand of hair on her body. You had thought about her, every waking minute. It is not in your nature to mistake, or lie. And yet, you did. It is the first time since Redbeard, that you ever lost control over your tongue. You could have, of course, rectified your error immediately. But you didn't. It was very obvious Irene Adler faked her death to escape something, and did not have a lot of friends. By identifying her body, you would have aided the escape. She would drop in to thank you personally, someday.

You had looked forward to that.

Of course, the game had changed entirely from then. You remembered, with a faint tinge of bitterness, how you had nearly been outsmarted. Looking back, her guarded eyes should have warned you. But they didn't. Now that you think of it, out of all the times she had been with you, only once had she let down the shield. In Karachi. You had seen it then, the raw fear. The crippling sense of doom.

The only time you had witnessed the real Irene Adler, was when you had stepped in to kill her.

You had a feeling this would be a defining moment in your relationship.


	2. Chapter 1: Sunday Surprises

**Irene**

You are perhaps the only person in the world who knows Sherlock Holmes is lying, that he is not dead. It is life's strangest game. Maybe this is how you will see each other – in vividly coloured dreams, memories and faked deaths. It is not in Sherlock Holmes' nature to commit suicide, to accept defeat. _He never lets a message go unanswered._

For a moment, however, you imagine living in a world without Sherlock Holmes. It would be a far more insipid life. With him alive, you can imagine a hundred scenario's where you will unite. With him dead, all that is left is creating scenarios and breaking them. Over and over.

It has been a long time since you left London. Constructing scenarios is the only way you can retain a link to the one aspect of the past that mattered. Hours, you had spent, building up the perfect circumstances, the perfect dialogues, the coffee shop with just the right ambience and him. Him, with his beautiful, green eyes and cheek bones and banter and your elevated pulses. You had picked out exactly what to wear and how to comb your hair. Just the right amount of make up to enhance your beauty. It was so beautiful, and perfect, that it could never be real.

Just like Sherlock's suicide.

You feel the tingle of the familiar adrenalin course through your veins as you tried to think why Sherlock would fake his death. What had caused him to do this? Who was Richard Brooks?

It is a relaxed Sunday morning. The bakery is closed. You go down to the living room, looking forward to sitting down on your favourite chair and thinking.

Except Sherlock Holmes is sitting on the said chair, exactly as you remember him.


	3. Chapter 2: Let's Have Dinner

**Sherlock**

Her scent invades the room before she does. It interrupts your analysis of the room. You raise your head slightly to detect the faint scent of cucumber.

_Cheap. Recently bought. Local brand. Used ten minutes ago. _

You force your mind to return to the room. The various scenarios you had constructed in your head, as you had made your way here, are flooding your mind now. Glimpses and dialogues are muddling up. There is a slight heaviness in your head. The room is oppressive, dull. Everything screams for your attention, even though their purpose is precisely otherwise. This room. This house. That soap. They are not Irene.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Holmes"

You turn and smile slightly.

_Hands worn. Engaged in some manual labour. Face deliberately plain. No make-up has been applied in ages. Lines on forehead. Cheap clothes. Deliberately loose. Staying under radar. Slight scent of dough from hands, despite the bath. Baking? Maybe a patisserie, bakery more likely. Eyes. Guarded. _(You smile at that.),_ stance. On defence. Signs of other people living in house. None. House, cleaned by someone inexperienced. She does it herself. Has lost some weight. Bakery. But not flourishing. _

A disguise is always a self-portrait, naked Irene pops into your mind.

"I was wondering if we might have that dinner now, Irene"

Her guard firms, her smile becomes coy. The dominatrix returns.

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. I must ask however, why now?"

"I missed your messages, Irene."

She shakes her head and laughs. "Oh, how I have missed our games, Mr. Holmes. Tell me, would you like to shower first, or would you like some dinner?"

You control your expression just in time and smile a polite smile. "A shower, I believe, is in order."

She gives you the directions and rushes off to the kitchen. You slowly make your way, thinking hard. This is a paradigm shift from last time you had seen Irene. Garishly coloured memories of the naked Irene are fighting hard with the memories of this Irene, with her worn out hands.

You are unsure if you want the Irene who you knew would betray you or the Irene you don't know at all.


	4. Chapter 4: Prison

**Irene**

Your hands move around in practiced motions of adding ingredients and then stirring, your mind is dancing on a tangent of its own.

His cheekbones are more defined now, he is fitter, and he holds himself taller. He is vigilant, his words are playful but his eyes are alert. They are changing into shades of green and blue as sunlight dances in and out of them. His gaze is piercing, and you feel as though a hundred arrows have torn through the skin and the muscle and pinned you into the imaginary board in his mind. You are modestly clothed and yet you feel naked. Naked and examined, like a scientist examines his subjects.

Sherlock Holmes in his glory. You had forgotten.

You hear him upstairs, the shower has been turned on. This is a small home in a small town, filled with small people and you are ashamed. You are ashamed that you – Irene Adler, dominatrix, the woman, the woman - are forced to live here and see Sherlock Holmes like this. This is you, you are ordinary – with cheap shampoo in your hair and a ladle in your hand and this is not how you wanted to see him. This is ordinary, this is plain and this is not how you want him to remember you.

This tiny village is the place time has forgotten and the warm wood is just prison bars painted to look so. It is beautiful, but it is a prison. You wake up, you breathe, you sleep, you breathe some more. It is calm, it is beautiful but it is not you. You're trapped. Trapped in the prison you helped create with Jim Moriarty and you have the key in your hand. He was sadistic, Jim. The prison keys are in your hand, and yet you cannot escape. Somewhere in the world, he is laughing and helping someone else paint their own prison.

You hear Sherlock climb down the steps lightly. Food's ready. He sits down quietly and looks up at you. You know he resides in a similar cage – but you don't want to touch him, feel him, look at him, anything.

* * *

_Sorry for the late update, I was very busy. Thank you :)_


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